


The Vision Giver

by ElegantGhost



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Bromance, Caring Dean, Case Fic, Empathy, Enemies to Friends, Epic Bromance, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Master & Servant, Master/Slave, Non-Sexual Slavery, Owner Dean, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Whump, Sam Winchester's Visions, Sick Sam Winchester, Slave Sam, Slave Trade, Slavery, Slaves, Telepathy, Visions, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000, slavefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElegantGhost/pseuds/ElegantGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where the gifted are sold on the black market, lone hunter Dean purchases a visionary with an eye for escape. But as visions lead them into a web of danger and deceit, Sam and Dean are challenged with overcoming their pasts and working together to defeat their enemies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Warehouse

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a lengthy story. It will NOT contain rape, sexual assault, gore, graphic torture, or slash. But there will be a fair amount of action, general violence, and some swearing. Time period: Season 6. Being an AU, events prior to season six may be mentioned but with different outcomes than in the show. All fan art for this fic is "original" in that I compiled it using Adobe Photoshop CC, so please credit ElegantGhost when sharing or using elements from it. Thanks!

 

  


The stench of the warehouse was only lessened by the winter chill just beyond the doors. Dean wrinkled his nose as he made his way through the crowd. It wasn't easy with the horde of stick-up-their-ass hunters and assorted creeps who'd been invited to this year's gathering. Hell, if parking was a nightmare at the state fair, it was a catastrophe at the black market. Hundreds of vehicles were dispersed over a wider area to divert suspicion from the authorities.

Or anyone else who'd crash the party.

The warehouse was located beside a channel that cut through the city. As it was Saturday night, no one noticed strangers walking the streets. Even if those strangers had eyes that darted around with wary alertness, trigger fingers twitching whenever a car backfired or laughter broke out. If Dean had learned anything after the death of his dad five years prior, it was that people were either unobservant or apathetic. They just didn't care.

That would work in his favor tonight. No feds to infiltrate the scene. Usually he couldn't stomach the douchebags the black market attracted – half of them deserved to be arrested, or worse - but these were desperate times and they all knew it. Why else risk crossing an enemy or being tailed once they left? The check-your-weapons-at-the-door rule only went so far, even if it was emphasized by assholes pacing the warehouse perimeter with semi-automatics.

He remembered how they'd scared him as a boy, how his dad brought him here to retrieve a Giver for someone he was working for. Dean was too young to understand what was happening, but there were details that stuck with him. Vivid flashes, here and there. The hopelessness in the Giver's eyes, for one thing.

Just a little longer. He clenched his jaw. Just a little longer and he'd have what he came for.

The commotion on the loading docks heightened his resolve. Muffled though it was, Dean heard the shuffling of Givers. A foot-long cord between their ankles prevented escape. It also made them easier to subdue once a deal was made.

The mere thought of trading cash for a human sickened him, but his recent hunts had been ineffective death marches. He'd done little more than extend his condolences. In the past two months, he'd been shot, stabbed, and bludgeoned over the head. It was all par for the course, but he felt himself getting sloppy. If he continued on this path, he'd be dead in less than six months.

As Givers were led into the warehouse and conversations quieted to mummers, Dean found himself eying the _shipment_ and feeling like the scum of the earth. It was almost impossible to predict the gifts of individual Givers by looking at them. But he tried.

There were Givers who controlled others by suggestion, but they were a risky purchase and not what he was looking for. Those with super strength, while useful in the hunting business, would also be risky.

No… what he needed were visions. The eloquent version of a "heads-up." Something – _someone_ \- to provide a compass for future cases and keep him alive. Someone who wasn't a reason for him to be on guard 24/7.

He scanned the Givers as they were led to separate areas of the warehouse. They went quietly, if somewhat indignantly. Which made sense. This first round of bidding would be for Givers who'd willingly signed over their lives in exchange for the freedom of a Giver taken by force. They would be more cooperative and higher in demand.

Unwilling Givers would be brought out after deals for the willing were reached. They would be feral, frightened, and undisciplined. But they would be the only remaining choices for buyers who hadn't made a deal during the first round.

Dean would make a deal. He wouldn't cross the line between himself and the monsters he hunted by enslaving an unwilling Giver, no matter how valuable their Gift. The line between willing and unwilling was a fine one, and he knew that. After all, decades of service could render a willing Giver bitter and angry. But when they committed themselves, it was for life. They were aware of the terms going in.

He wandered the perimeter, where Givers had been put on display like pieces of meat. They stood under spotlights beside cheap folding tables, where the black market version of an accountant notarized bids and changed the digital numbers before him accordingly.

It wasn't the chaos one might expect when attending a black market. Interested parties were more likely to whisper a figure or slip the accountant a note than to yell out a bid. But these were cash deals. It wouldn't be wise to shout out how much someone could pickpocket you for.

As he passed Giver after Giver, Dean noticed similarities between them. They were barefoot. Another means to prevent permanent escape, he was sure. All were freshly showered, water still dripping from their hair. The men were shirtless and the women wore low cut shirts. Not for the sake of perversion, but for practicality. After those in the crowd had followed whichever Giver first appealed to them and the first bids were placed, accountants marked their respective Giver with a tar letter over their heart.

 _C_ for Control.

 _S_ for Strength.

 _V_ for Visions.

Further movement from the crowd accompanied these declarations. Dean sought out a Giver with a stark V on his or her chest. It had been one hell of a day. He was ready to buy and then drive at least 100 miles before checking into a motel.

He tried to keep his mind off the fact that these were actual _people_ before him. People with their arms hanging by their sides, wearing expressions of humiliation, defiance, or numb defeat. The next round would only be worse.

Let there be a Giver with visions somewhere in the lot…

There.

Two of them. One woman with distant eyes, clothes hanging from her frame, and a man who couldn't have been much younger than Dean. Neither of them were untouched, but the man had fading bruises all over his chest and old scars that suggested his previous owners were less than kind. Dean didn't want to think about what he would look like if he turned around.

Even with the man in far worse condition than the woman, there was a startling difference in their prices. What the…

Then he saw the small _FR_ tarred just below the _V_ on the man. Oh.

Flight risk.

That explained the lower price. And the scars. Damn it.

A muscular Giver would be more useful during a hunt than some chick who'd need rescuing every five seconds. Dean would need more than descriptions, after all. He would need the eyes of the Giver there with him, to instantly recognize whatever situations followed visions.

If that weren't enough reason to go for the man, Dean's wallet wasn't as thick as it used to be. It was difficult to hustle pool or run credit scams while unconscious from a bullet wound. Or a stab wound. Or a-

Nevertheless… the man had a tense, cold air about him that warned he'd be trouble. Shoulders back, his eyes scanned the crowd, as if challenging someone to step forward and fight. His poorly-veiled anger meant two things: one, he'd willingly signed himself over a long time ago, and two, the line between willing and unwilling had thinned. He didn't belong in this round, not really. He belonged in the next one.

Dean glanced over at the woman, torn and undecided. The next surge in her price made the decision for him.

"Sorry, honey," he muttered.

Dean turned his attention to the accountant behind the price he could still afford. As he stepped closer, he felt the Giver's eyes on him and looked up to meet them.

 _Go on,_ they seemed to dare. _Place a bid._

Dean outwardly smirked, even as he felt his heart pound harder with adrenaline. Oh, yeah. Definitely dangerous. Awesome.

He broke their gaze and stepped up to the table.

"Dean Winchester. $12,500."

The accountant peered up at him over the rim of his spectacles before making the notation. Ass hat. The previous bid was less than ten thousand. With little time remaining, unless the red flag _FR_ disappeared from his chest, this Giver was as good as his.

* * *

Sam inwardly swore when he saw the accountant look up at the smirking jerk.

They only did that when the deal was all but sealed.

He swallowed hard, wondering what the man could want with him. The throbbing behind his eyes was distracting, but he tried to avoid wincing. The last thing he wanted to give these bastards was a show. They could get their kicks during the next round.

Sam shivered just thinking about it. The screams and whimpers from Givers who'd been snatched off the streets for tonight echoed within his mind. The pain they felt was still fresh. He felt it as he lay beside them during the journey here. It permeated the air, weighing it down, pressing against him, invading his mind.

He longed for the days when visions hadn't been a part of his life. Or even when they had been, years before crowded settings began to overwhelm him with transferred emotion.

How long had it been now? It seemed like a lifetime. But no… it'd only been six years since the visions began. Nightmares at first. His girlfriend Jess had been there to comfort him when he woke up yelling…

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Sam steeled himself. Jess. She'd discovered her own gift, the power to heal people, months after his visions began coming true. Between one day and the next, she was taken from him. Abducted by these animals, to be sold at the next auction. The only reason he'd known is because he was called by a man the day after Jess disappeared. If Sam agreed to a lifetime of service, they would release Jessica and never bother her again.

Too many drinks later, he'd worked up the courage to _just do it_ before he lost his nerve. Go through with the trade. Before someone pointed out the obvious: the abductors were luring him into a trap. But there was a cold, hard truth to face.

He had nothing left to lose.

Never let it be said there's no honor amongst thieves. True to their word, Jess was released. He even snuck phone calls to her during those first few years, before this life wore him down. The only thing he wanted was for her to be free and happy. She couldn't be happy if he surprised her with phone calls every now and then. It was cruel.

_Hi, remember me? The love of your life, who sacrificed his freedom to keep you safe? Oh, I'm doing great, except for the whip lashes across my back. Yeah, I didn't know people still used whips either. This experience is teaching me so much._

To avoid such conversations, Sam hadn't contacted her in years. But it was worth it. She was worth it. Wherever she was now, he hoped she'd moved on and found a man who treated her like royalty.

A shout rang out over the crowd, announcing the end of bidding. He was jolted back to the present: the warehouse around him, the eyes studying him. If he hadn't been daydreaming about Jess, he might have had time to brace himself against the emotional tidal wave.

He felt his mental barriers give way under the weight of the fear and relief of Givers. He felt the victory of winning bidders and the satisfaction of the cash collectors. But there was one emotion that overwhelmed him more than any other:

Rage.

Givers were few. Bidders were many. He felt their anger and resentment toward their loss, carefully concealed though it was. No façade could seal their emotions inside them. It was a suffocating fog, drifting in the air. It crept inside him with every breath, making his heart pound like that of a wild animal.

Sam felt Lenor's eyes on him from where she stood bound under her own spotlight. She emitted little more than emptiness, but there was pity too. As though she knew what he was about to do.

His head whipped in her direction and a growl rose in his throat. What did she know about emotion? She'd scarcely done more than breathe since the moment he'd met her. And the rest of them-

His breath came faster as he glared at them, all of them. The man handing cash to the collector, eying him warily. The guards with guns, parading around as if they could control the crowd. As if they could control _him_. His vision blurred with pain and anger.

"Now, now," a voice _tsked_ behind him. "We've been through this before, Sam."

Sam turned to see three Enforcers led by a Doper. Their job was collection and distribution, by any means necessary. Already, he saw Lenor in his peripheral vision, injected with a syringe and then carried away. She didn't so much as struggle, going with them like a meek little lamb.

_Bitch._

He felt a muscle twitch in his cheek. His hands clenched into fists. She was a disgrace to their kind, nothing but a living, breathing _doll_.

"Get away from me," he snarled at the Enforcers. It was a warning for their protection. But they smiled as if he'd thrown them a bone.

They spread out, allowing him plenty of room while blocking any escape. Sam felt the atmosphere change. It became charged with the excitement of the Enforcers and the crowd's realization that he wasn't about to go quietly. Perhaps if the emotional change occurred sooner, it would've doused the rage burning through him.

But it didn't. His entire body tensed, knees bending, shoulders hunching.

"Nice and easy, now," the Doper reminded the Enforcers. "Remember, he's freshly purchased."

They began moving in as a group. Sam's senses sharpened with adrenaline. He heard the shuffle of his own bare feet and denim jeans as he shifted, ready to knock out whoever reached him first. His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, and he tossed his head as sweat dripped into his eyes. The sting of salt only fueled his anger.

Though rage from the crowd was fading, his own fighting spirit stirred. Enough was enough. He wasn't merely a Giver, he was Sam, damn it. He had a name. Not just a price.

"Come on, man," he distantly heard. The voice was tired, and maybe a little disappointed. "Don't fight."

_Like hell._

The Enforcers were so close that he felt their body heat. Then they were on him.

Two of them lunged for his upper arms, and he let them. It allowed him to bring both feet up and plant them in the chest of the third man. Thrown off balance by the push, Sam and the two men holding him tumbled to the floor. He grunted when his ribs hit the concrete with enough force to crack. His head bounced too, but not hard enough to slow him down.

The crowd pressed in, jeering and cheering him on.

Laying on his side, Sam sensed a fallen Enforcer approach him from behind. He turned onto his back, following through with a punch to the jaw. A second Enforcer grabbed his wrist, trying to pull it back, but he went with the motion, elbowing them in the chest. By the time the third Enforcer approached, Sam swept his feet out from under him. He finished by kicking the man in the face with both feet.

By now, other Enforcers and guards were running toward the commotion. Sam knew he didn't stand a chance, but his anger drowned out any common sense. He rolled backwards to rise to his feet. But before he could stand, a knee planted itself against his spine and his arm was twisted behind his back.

The next thing he knew, he was flat on his stomach, concrete cold against his chest. There was a weight on his back, putting pressure on his injured side. He let out a half-yell, half-growl of pained frustration. The taste of copper filled his mouth. He realized he'd bitten his tongue when he hit the floor. His chin burned with a fresh scuff.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" the man holding him snapped. It was the same voice that told him not to fight earlier.

With an apologetic mumble, the Doper's shoes came into view. He knelt down, the light gleaming off a needle in his hand.

Sam went wild at the sight of it. He struggled, he bucked, but nothing he did could break the hold that tightened as he thrashed. His side was on fire and a gray haze settled over his vision, but he couldn't give in. Not now. The man on top of him used a forearm to pin Sam's shoulders.

"You've made your point, pal," the man strained. "Just relax. Stop fighting us."

The needle was thrust into Sam's arm, and he knew the battle was lost. He never stood a chance to begin with, but he was human, wasn't he? He had a breaking point. And he could blame it on emotional transference, but the truth was, he was tired. Tired of this life.

So very tired…

Sam blinked as the room grew hazy. The Doper's shoes, the recovering Enforcers, even the crowd beyond the spotlight faded out of focus. As the tension left him, he felt the pressure on his injured side ease and then disappear altogether. His arm slid from his back to the warehouse floor, limp beside him once more.

"If you can't take down one Giver without hurting him, you have no business selling them," he heard.

"We don't sell Givers, sir. We sell their Gifts."

"However you want to spin it, pal." A pause. "Why isn't he out?"

The Doper's footsteps grew closer. His leather shoes strained as he knelt down. A penlight shone into Sam's eyes.

"Uh, well… he seems quite resistant. I can up the dosage if you like."

"Never mind." The man's voice was disgusted. "Just get him in the van. Think you can handle that?"

"Of course, sir."

Fingers snapped. A moment later, hands worked their way under Sam's arms and pulled him up. Head falling back, he was treated to a dizzying view of the warehouse ceiling. As his head lolled forward, he caught another glimpse of the man who'd purchased him. Had it not been so quick, so blurred, he might have sworn he saw concern in the buyer's eyes. But genuine concern was too much to hope for. No buyer showed concern behind closed doors.

His feet dragged behind him as they made their way toward the exit. The tops of his feet were scraped and caked with grime before they reached the door. The hands holding him never loosened their grip, but he couldn't expect anything less after his outburst.

Crisp air helped rouse him when they stepped outside, though he was shivering in seconds. Still, he managed to lift his head in time to see fellow Givers loaded into a line of vans. Doors slammed as the one before him slid open.

His buyer entered first, squatting on the carpeted floor, arms out to receive him.

"Don't touch me," Sam tried to say. But all that escaped was a pathetic mumble. He was turned around and tugged backward. When the hollows of his knees hit the edge of the van floor, the grip on his arms constricted further. He was lowered until hands cradled his shoulders, forearms jostling his head. The starry sky disappeared. A van ceiling took its place.

The buyer behind him shuffled backwards. His tethered legs were lifted into the van. Then the door slid shut. The buyer settled him so that his head was on the floor.

Two hollow _thumps_ signaled the driver to get a move on. There were other Givers to distribute after the second round of bidding, after all.

"Just take it easy," the buyer absently murmured as the van lurched forward. He peered down at him. Beyond his drug-induced stupor, Sam felt something more than transferred curiosity. He felt… fear wasn't the right word. Caution? Guilt? If he hadn't been doped up, he might've been able to pinpoint it.

"I'm parked at fifth and Jefferson," the buyer suddenly barked. He was talking to the driver, but Sam jerked at his words. A hand absently found his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "I'll be expecting my weapons."

"You'll get them," came the monotone answer. Sam couldn't be sure if the driver was truly that cold, or if the drugs were messing with his head. He was so exhausted-

"Sadistic douchebags."

That woke him up. Sam stared up at the buyer with disbelief.

_What does that make you? Who are you?_

As if sensing his gaze, the buyer glanced down at him again. "Look, uh, you probably can't understand me through the crap they injected you with, but you're safe. I only need your help. Nothing bad is gonna happen to you."

If Sam had the strength, he would've scoffed. Instead, he was reduced to closing his eyes. It was childish and stubborn, but it was the only card he had left. The van turned, jostling his head to the side. A hand picked up his wrist to take his pulse.

 _Don't touch me._ The physical contact introduced an array of emotions, dizzying in his current state. He couldn't separate one from another. Anticipation or impatience? Concern or fear? Anger or disgust? _Get off, get off._

The van slowed, and the buyer lowered his wrist to crawl forward. Sam released a long breath. A weight had been lifted from his chest. He could finally breathe, despite the pain in his side. When the door slid open, he felt the van rock as the buyer hopped out. A car door opened and then hands roughly grabbed his ankles, yanking him forward.

"I got it," the buyer snapped.

"Just doing what they pay me for, man."

Sam found himself hauled over a beefy shoulder in a fireman's carry. His stomach lurched from the onslaught of agony, vision graying out from lack of oxygen. He couldn't breathe… couldn't…

He started awake and looked around in confusion. A hand was squeezing his upper arm. The van was gone and he was sitting in the front passenger seat of a car.

"Hey, dude, you with me?" he heard.

Head swimming, Sam could barely make out the features of a man-

Oh. It was still the buyer. Great.

"That wasn't a vision, was it?"

Sam shook his head, immediately regretting it. The world spun enough as it was. Moonlit shadows swirled around vaguely familiar shapes until he swallowed to avoid being sick.

"Look, we need to hit the road. We'll stop at a motel when I'm sure we aren't being followed."

It wasn't until the buyer guided his head back that Sam realized he'd been leaning farther and farther out of the car. That would make it difficult to shut the door.

The car rocked with the motion. A moment later, the man was in the driver's seat.

"I'm Dean," he spoke, turning the key in the ignition. There was a pause, as if he was waiting for a response. "But I guess we can work on introductions later."

Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head against the passenger window.

Damn straight.


	2. Building Trust

 

They were passing mile marker 89 when Dean glanced at the man in the passenger seat and wondered if he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life. He'd _bought_ a human. A human who was passed out against his car door.

Returning his eyes to the road, he thought about what the seller had told him. There was a locator chip implanted in the back of the Giver's neck. The tracking device was in Dean's pocket. Should the Giver ever decide to run, it wouldn't take more than a couple hours to find him.

 _Like a dog_.

The Doper handed him a two-week supply of what he termed _transitional medication_. Probably the same stuff they'd injected him with earlier. Syringes included. But Dean had no intention of using it, even if the same distress reared its ugly head again. He was trained in hand-to-hand combat. He could handle it. And his hope was that once the Giver realized he had no intention of hurting him, he'd cooperate. At least a little. How many other choices did he have?

Dean narrowed his eyes as the signs for a motel came into view. He'd passed several motels earlier with the intention of creating a wider search area, should anyone attempt to track him from the warehouse. But it was getting late. He wasn't about to sleep in the car with someone who'd probably cut off his nose to spite his face.

A neon Vacancy sign had him pulling into a parking lot. He warily eyed the sleeping Giver before climbing out of the car, taking the keys with him. This whole willing slave… employee… _Giver_ thing was new to him. He wasn't sure how skittish they were.

Shaking his head as he slipped into the office, he automatically booked them a room with two beds. Afterwards, he wondered if Givers were supposed to sleep in beds. He didn't see why they shouldn't. They were still human. Self-sacrificing, tortured humans, certainly, but humans nevertheless.

He was pleased to see the Giver still waiting for him when he returned to the car. It was a brief drive to the room, but it was enough to wake him. Good.

"Awake, huh?" He asked quietly, parking the car. "I got us a room for the night. I'm exhausted, and I'm not about to give you the keys."

Bleary eyes looked over at him when he turned off the engine.

"Because of the drugs," he added, as an afterthought. "You-"

He cleared his throat and tried not to squirm under the Giver's stare, finally exiting the car. He popped the truck and grabbed the bags. They hadn't given him any of the Giver's possessions, so Dean was working under the assumption that he didn't have any. That was okay. He'd picked up an extra toothbrush, comb, and some other crap before going to the warehouse.

The passenger door swung open as he closed the truck. Two bare feet, still tethered with a plastic cord, slowly lowered to the pavement.

Dean glanced around. There was no one in sight, so he decided to cut the cord only once they'd entered the room. He wasn't in the mood to chase anyone tonight, drugged or not. They could trade the cord for handcuffs until morning. The drugs would be out of the Giver's system by then, and they could discuss the ground rules.

"Come on, dude." Dean waited for him to emerge from the car. He did so unsteadily, keeping a hand on the Impala for balance. To anyone watching them, he probably appeared to be just another drunk who'd somehow misplaced his shirt and shoes during a night of partying. If they only knew.

Room nine.

Dean led the way inside, dropping his bag on the bed closest to the door. The Giver entered the room behind him, closed and locked the door, and then just stood there, swaying. So Dean gently took him by the elbow and led him to the far bed.

"Take a seat," he muttered, reaching for the lamp switch. It was a piss poor excuse for a bulb, casting them in a dim glow. But it emitted enough light for him to examine the scars that marred the Giver's chest and arms. They were savage and disturbing, but the fresh bruises were more Dean's concern. Especially those along his rib cage.

He sighed. Freaking Enforcers. "I'm going to get you some ice for those, all right? There's an ice machine by the office. Just don't go anywhere. You don't have any shoes and it's too cold to track you down tonight."

* * *

Sam stared at the motel door after the buyer left. Dean, his name was. Dean. It was a good, strong name. Better than Sir, which is what his last owner insisted on being called. Whatever. They remained his owners and he remained their Giver, and no name would change that.

Shivers began to wrack his frame, making him wince. Every time he was dosed, there was a period during which his body tried to rid itself of the sedative. Shaking, sweating, even vomiting a couple times. It also made him cold one moment and hot the next. Being dosed sucked.

Sam was contemplating whether or not Dean would let him lay down when the door opened and he reappeared, toting a bucket of ice.

"Sorry it took so long. The ice machine needed a kick or two. This isn't exactly the Ritz, am I right?"

He placed the ice bucket on the table, kicking off his shoes and removing his jacket. Sam shifted on the bed uneasily. His side did ache, but he was also freezing – for the moment at least – and the idea of being put on ice was less than appealing.

Dean looked up, eyes taking in his discomfort. "Hey, are you all right?" He moved closer, until he was kneeling about a foot away. "You're shaking. What's going on? Talk to me."

Sam felt a jolt of concern flood through him when Dean rested a hand on his arm. It was confusing. He clenched his eyes tightly, inwardly pleading for the touch to recede.

It did.

The emotion faded, allowing him to open his eyes without feeling overwhelmed with sensory information. He took a deep breath.

"It's probably the drugs they shot you up with," Dean speculated. "Sorry it happened that way. I just need your help, that's all. I was worried they'd hit you over the head or something if you didn't stop fighting." He stood and returned to his bed to grab something from the duffle bag. "I do have clothes for you, but I don't know if they'll fit. The pants might be a little short."

His eyes trailed over Sam's torso. "You might want to take a shower before putting these on. It'll warm you up and wash the dirt off. Warehouse floors aren't clean, you know?"

Sam was too tired to take a shower, but what the buyer wanted, the buyer got. That was the first rule he'd been taught after signing over his life in exchange for Jessica's freedom. He couldn't conjure visions, but he could obey most other requests.

For the most part, he'd never been asked to do anything outrageous or sexual, and when he was, it was just that. He was asked. His previous owners seemed to think that causing him severe emotional distress would _break_ his ability to have visions, the very reason they'd purchased him in the first place. If he never corrected such assumptions, well, it made his life more bearable.

He completed household chores and outdoor maintenance if they lived at a base. He rode with them if they traveled from hunt to hunt. Almost daily, he'd have head-splitting visions to report. Whenever those visions weren't desirable, he'd endure pain at the end of whatever weapon was handy, but his owners tended to quickly lose interest in hurting him.

It wasn't the easiest life, but it was his life. And as long as Jess was safe and happy, that was all that mattered. So when his new owner Dean suggested that he take a shower, it was just another duty, another night, another task. He answered in the only way he had the energy to. With a nod.

"Awesome," Dean smiled, appearing relieved. He knelt down and flipped open a switchblade. If Sam hadn't been drugged, he might have reacted somehow. Instead, he stared stupidly as the cord was cut from his ankles.

There was a hint of wariness in Dean's eyes when he stood. "Go ahead, then. Take these clothes." He held them out. "Just leave the door open. So I know you're not climbing through any windows."

Sam thought the last part might have been a joke, but he didn't comment on it as he accepted the clothing and walked into the bathroom. The tile was cold, but not as bad as the pavement outside. The light switch triggered a low _hum_ as the lights flickered to life.

He turned on the shower nozzle, yanking his hand back when water sprayed from the showerhead. His heart pumped in slow, steady beats, but the sound grew louder in his ears. The air thickened as steam drifted from behind the plastic curtain.

 _Don't lose it_. He grit his teeth, lowering his head. Memories of his last shower were washing over him. The humiliation and terror of Givers around him had been difficult to block out. They were stripped of their clothing, thrust under icy water, and given new clothes. One by one. Giver by Giver. Now he was suffering through an _echo,_ a rush of previously-felt emotion that only lasted a few terrifying seconds.

"You okay, man?" he heard. Looking up, he met Dean's eyes. He nodded. He was okay. Everything was fine.

"Here." Dean leaned into the bathroom to turn the fan on. "No need to suffocate."

Sam straightened and unbuttoned his jeans. The motion caused Dean to retreat further into the room, allowing him some privacy. With shaking hands, he pushed down his jeans and stepped out of them. He hadn't been given any underwear, but at the very least, it meant less laundry. Maybe there were boxers discretely hidden in the clothes Dean gave him.

The water was hot enough to scald him when he stepped into the tub, but he welcomed the twinge of pain. He wanted to wash away the past six years. Every scar, every bruise, every haunting vision. He wanted to wash it all away.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Dean was cleaning his favorite pistol, ears perked for whenever the shower turned off. The last thing he needed was to be caught off guard, disarmed, or both. But he wanted to be prepared for the Giver's next vision. No matter what it was, he wanted to check it out. He was open to anything at this point. And while he didn't doubt the validity of the Giver, proof that his visions were useful would set Dean's mind at ease.

_Thud._

His head snapped up at the sound of something heavy falling in the bathtub.

He sprang to his feet and strode to the bathroom. "You all right in there?" he called.

There was no answer. From the consistent drum of water, half on skin, half on tile, there was no movement beyond the curtain.

With an exasperated sigh – it was too late for this crap – Dean peered behind the shower curtain to see the Giver's naked body sprawled at an unnatural angle. His eyes were closed. And he wasn't moving.

 _Shit_.

Dean turned off the water and threw back the shower curtain. He grabbed the nearest towel, draping it over the Giver like a blanket.

"Hey. Hey, dude." He rested a hand on the man's shoulder, squeezing firmly. "Come on, wake up and talk to me."

The Giver groaned. His eyes cracked open, and he blinked a few times. The muscles in his neck tensed as he tried to raise his head from the lip of the bathtub.

"That's it," Dean encouraged him. "Wake up, pal."

Unable to lift his head, the Giver turned it toward him instead. "It's Sam."

Then his eyes rolled back in his head and his chin slumped against his shoulder.

Dean inwardly cursed, moving the towel to see the angry bruises that covered the Giver's left side and wrapped around his back. There was no telling if they were the reason for his sudden lapse in consciousness or if he was simply exhausted beyond belief. Either way, they needed to be iced as soon as possible.

"Sam, huh?" Dean questioned, absently running his hand through the Giver's wet hair. "Well, Sam, it looks like they did a number on you. Hope you don't mind if I patch you up a bit."

After rolling up his sleeves, he grabbed the remaining towels on the rack, spreading one over the tile and draping two over his arm. Then he knelt by the tub and began methodically drying Sam off. Between his shivers and flushed appearance, he could use more than one night of rest. But people were dying out there. There wasn't time to take it easy for two weeks.

Drying Sam's arms, chest, and legs was relatively simple. It was lifting him from the bathtub while maintaining his dignity that was the challenge.

He stood somewhat behind Sam, slipping his arms under his shoulders. With a deep breath in, he heaved. His back muscles twitched in protest. A strangled grunt of exertion left him. When Sam was half on the lip of the tub, Dean shifted to his side, easing him onto the floor towel as gently as possible. Which wasn't very gently. The man was all muscle.

Snatching the clothes off the counter, he slid the boxers onto Sam, quickly followed by sweatpants. Deciding to forgo the shirt, he glanced at Sam's closed eyes before freely studying the scars on his chest. They overlapped in a way that suggested he'd been beaten multiple times over a short period. There were also cigarette burns and knife wounds alongside scars he couldn't immediately identify.

Heartless sons of bitches.

 _Ice_ , he reminded himself. Sam needed ice. The tar _V_ and _FR_ on his chest had been mostly scrubbed away, taking the top layer of skin with it. It looked painful.

Dean half-carried, half-dragged Sam to his bed. A fireman's carry might have been easier, but he didn't want to risk further damaging his ribs. It wasn't worth it.

As soon as Sam was settled, he packed three bags of ice and carefully placed them around his injured side. He only left them there until he was finished cleaning up the bathroom. And hiding his pistol. Then he removed the bags, and yanked the covers out from under Sam so he'd be kept warm overnight.

"I'm going to be honest with you, dude," he spoke quietly, tucking the blankets around him. "I don't know exactly what I'm getting into here. I don't know if you can help me, and I don't know if I can make life any better for you than it has been. But I do know that I will never, _ever_ hurt you the way they did. They were sick. You don't need to worry about that anymore."

There was no response, but Dean wasn't really expecting one. He rested his hand on Sam's forehead, thankful when he didn't pull away. There was no unnatural heat that suggested a fever. Aside from the occasional shiver, Sam looked as though he'd fallen into a deep sleep.

Dean readied himself for bed, brushing his teeth and stripping down to his boxers and a white t-shirt. His last order of business was to handcuff Sam's right wrist to the headboard. He didn't want to, but nothing would piss him off more than to find himself at the wrong end of his own gun before morning.

It was better this way. At least until he could further understand Sam's state of mind. And his gifts.

With a yawn, Dean turned off the lamp and wearily crawled into his own bed. The cool sheets and fresh scent of detergent were heavenly. Tucking his knife under his pillow, Dean closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

* * *

Sam bolted upright in bed, heart pounding in his ears. Fire surrounded him. Flames climbed the walls, roaring over the ceiling. An unbearable heat washed over the bed, charring his skin.

Bits of flaming wallpaper drifted onto the bedspread. He dove forward to put them out, but something _clinked_ around his wrist, holding him back. That's when he realized the wall behind him was also aflame, streaks of blue mingling with white.

A strangled sound of panic rose in his throat. He rolled off the bed, a bed he didn't recognize, tugging at what bound his wrist. It appeared to be a pair of handcuffs, though the room was filling with smoke and it was too hazy to know for sure. He threw himself back, hoping his weight would be enough to break the headboard. Or at the very least, slip his wrist through what bound him.

He coughed and sputtered. Tears filled his eyes as smoke rose around him. It was growing too dark to see clearly, but the relentless glow beyond the haze was terrifying. He couldn't breathe. Fire pressed in on all sides, sure to burn him alive.

It was consuming the bed. If he didn't move fast, he would be next.

His struggles increased until his wrist ached, and blood trickled down his arm. But anything was better than burning to death. He doubled his efforts to break free.

* * *

Dean rolled over in bed, snuggling deeper into his pillow. He'd been having the most amazing dream about a pair of redhead twins in matching bikinis. Hunting for a monster octopus with over a dozen tentacles, he was just explaining to the young ladies how they should take care when entering the water. They might never know what lay below the surface. That's when he suggestively unbuttoned his shirt and flashed a million-dollar smile.

It was a dream that was going places. And he could get back to it, if only whoever was yanking on handcuffs would stop.

His eyes flew open. Please don't let it be someone he picked up for a night of innocent fun and passed out on. That had only happened once, but he could have died under her glare. It wasn't a mistake he cared to repeat.

Blearily gazing around, he realized there was no one else in his bed. There wasn't much light to see by, only what shone through the crack in the curtains from the vacancy sign out front. The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:24am. He groaned. Shaking off the remnants of sleep at three _anything_ AM was damn near impossible.

The handcuffs rattled again, followed by the sounds of someone straining to break free.

What the-

As far as he could recall, he'd conducted no recent interrogations. Or even took on any cases that would require-

_Sam._

The events of the previous night rushed back to him. The warehouse, Sam, driving, shower, scars, sleep, cuffs. He threw back the sheets with a curse, fumbling for the lamp switch. If Sam thought he was escaping this early in the game, he had another thing coming. Dean knew he'd been through some rough crap in the past, but trying to escape mere hours after purchase seemed a bit premature.

Light flooded the room. Sam was frantically yanking at the cuffs on the other side of his bed. If he noticed the light, he gave no indication. He didn't cease struggling to look up.

"Sam. Hey!"

Dean rounded the bed, fully intending to restrain him. But as his eyes adjusted to the light, they took in details that replaced his anger with confusion. A sheen of sweat glistened over Sam's torso. Too much sweat to be the result of drug detox. He was frantically looking around the room between tugs, his eyes glassy and unfocused. The muscles in his arms bulged, veins protruding as if his life depended on immediate freedom. He didn't seem to notice Dean's presence.

"Jesus," Dean breathed, eyes resting on the blood coating Sam's arm. The sight of blood spurred him into action. He didn't care if this was a night terror or part of the vision thing. Sam was shredding his own arm in his desperation. And that? Not okay.

"That's enough," he said, voice level and calm, hoping he wouldn't need to hold Sam down again. It wasn't a healthy platform for building trust and loyalty.

But Sam didn't respond at all to his words. If possible, his struggles only increased.

With a reluctant sigh, Dean moved in fast. He grabbed Sam's flailing wrist. A firm, controlled twist was all it took before Sam only had use of his legs. A gentle nudge to the hollow of one knee sent him bending over the bed at the waist, face buried in the covers.

It took a moment for him to realize he couldn't move. When he did, he began thrashing in panic.

Not this again.

Dean climbed onto the bed, straddling Sam's rib cage and pressing down on the hand he'd trapped behind his back.

"Sam, can you hear me?" He spoke directly in Sam's ear, keeping his voice calm. "Nod your head if you can hear me."

Nothing. Except a weak tug on the handcuffs.

Dean closed his eyes. This was turning out to be one hell of a first night. So far, buying a visionary was the worst idea he'd ever had. One of the worst, anyway. He had no idea why Sam wasn't responding to him. Or how dangerous this episode was. To top it all off, his morals were scattered to the winds if the trembling body below him and bloody handcuffs were any indication. Sam was as unwilling as they came.

Dean's eyes darted to the drug box near the duffel bags, wondering if a small dose would be necessary to keep Sam from hurting himself. Then he squared his jaw at the thought.

No. This situation _would_ work, it had to. And he didn't need drugs to calm Sam down. What if this was just a nightmare? He could barely remember his mother, but there was one thing she'd always done to calm him down. But… he clenched his eyes shut. It was too weird. Sam wasn't a child. He was a grown man.

 _With the irrational fear of a child_ , a voice inside his head reminded him.

He sighed. He was _so_ getting shit for this in the morning. That was, if Sam remembered anything.

Another weak buck of Sam's hips was enough to steel his resolve.

"Hey Jude," he whispered, voice cracking. Clearing his throat, he tried again, "Don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better. Remember to let her into your heart. Then you can start to make it better…"

It might have been his imagination, but Sam's breathing seemed to slow. Encouraged, he went on, "Hey Jude, don't be afraid. You were made to go out and get her. The minute you let her under your skin, then you begin to make it better…"

The tension left Sam's muscles as he went all but limp. He wasn't asleep yet. More like half-asleep, glazed eyes staring at the far wall without truly seeing it. Still, at least he wasn't fighting anymore.

Dean carefully eased off the bed, supporting Sam's uncuffed arm so he would stand. Then he guided him to turn and sit on the bed, against the headboard. He couldn't tell if Sam finally remembered him or where they were. The eyes staring back at him were fatigued, and a bit vacant.

Still humming _Hey Jude_ , he crossed the room to dig out the handcuffs key from his jacket pocket. The truth was, he was a little freaked. While he never expected to buy a Giver with an instruction manual, this was different from what he'd imagined. But there were some basics to take care of, namely bandaging Sam's injuries. He could do that.

He warily eyed Sam for any reaction as he unlocked the handcuffs. He didn't believe this to be a ploy to escape, but it was better to err on the side of caution.

He needn't have worried.

Sam didn't move at all. Not even when Dean dug out the bandages and carefully wrapped his wrist. Cleaning the wound was unnecessary, especially considering the course of antibiotics he planned to start administering in the morning. Sam could soon step on a nail and go for a walk through the sewers without catching an infection.

Once his wrist was bandaged, Dean guided him to slip between the sheets. He didn't realize he was still humming until Sam turned onto his side, facing him, eyes clear.

Whoa.

His eyes were haunted and unguarded. Dean abruptly fell silent as they bore into his soul. There was a flicker of disappointment in them before they fluttered closed.

Hint taken.

Dean softly resumed humming, turning off the light and climbing into his bed. He had no intention of sleeping while Sam remained free, but he hardly expected him to sleep with someone hovering over him.

He didn't know how long he hummed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. His thoughts drifted after a time. He thought of his mother, and the maternal things she used to do for him, for their family. He thought of his father and how he hadn't seen him in years. How he didn't care to.

Most of all, he thought of the future, and what it would mean to have Sam by his side, facing the horrors of the world with him. What it would mean to no longer be alone. As the soft glow of daylight peeked through the curtains, he fell silent and succumbed to sleep.

 


	3. On the Road Again

  


Sam blearily opened his eyes.

He stared at the ceiling, feeling a soft mattress below him. The events of the previous night were hazy at best. He remembered everything up until the motel shower. Only fragmented memories remained after that. Flashes, really. Nothing useful.

His head was pounding. Whether the headache was prelude to a vision or his body ridding itself of the sedative, he didn't know. It was too early to tell. Other symptoms of a drug-induced hangover were relentless, namely nausea, dry mouth, and vertigo. He had a rough morning ahead of him, visions notwithstanding.

He turned his head to glance at his owner, who was fast asleep. Further movement revealed that he was neither bound, nor handcuffed. That was odd. He could have sworn…

Sam threw back the covers and lifted his left wrist. He moved it back and forth experimentally, vaguely surprised to feel it ache. Dried blood dotted a bandage wrap. Something must have happened in the middle of the night.

Oh, no.

He felt his ears burn. A night terror probably overtook him while he slept. They happened when he was under stress, but the sedative usually prevented them. He hoped the buyer – Dean – wouldn't sell him off to some low life. A bandaged wrist meant there was some level of humanity under Dean's tough exterior. There were worse owners out there, and Sam had no desire to meet them.

Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he stared at the door. He could run. Just grab some clothes, money, a gun, and hightail it out of here. In his condition, however – he brought a hand to his stomach – he wouldn't make it very far.

Scarcely had the thought entered his mind before bile rose in his throat. His footsteps weren't as quiet as he would've liked, but noise was better than a rancid mess all over the carpet. At least he managed to shut the bathroom door before he dove for the toilet, stomach already lurching.

Some people heaved with their vocal cords, but Sam learned long ago how counterproductive that was. The only sounds in the bathroom were those of liquid sloshing and heavy breathing.

There was a knock on the door.

"Sam, are you okay in there?" The muffled words were careful, measured.

 _I'm fantastic,_ he felt like snapping. _Thought I'd start off the morning with some meditative vomiting._

It was a good thing further heaving prevented him from answering. No need to start off on the wrong foot when he didn't know if Dean had a temper.

He blindly reached up and flushed the toilet just as the door cracked open. Privacy was a privilege he'd given up years ago, but the intrusion still annoyed him - even when he heard a low curse and the faucet running. Spitting dryly into the toilet, Sam was admiring the cleanliness of the bowl when a cold washcloth was draped over the nape of his neck.

He bit back a groan. It was uncomfortable and _wet_ , and… abating the nausea. Water droplets trailed down his back, making him shudder, but he began to feel better. His stubborn streak insisted that it was because he'd just finished throwing up. It had nothing to do with the washcloth.

Right.

He heard Dean leave the bathroom, and breathed a sigh of relief. Not the type to linger and demand explanations, then. That was good. A bit cold, but if he expected concern, he was in the wrong line of-

A warm towel was dropped over his shoulders, making him jump.

"Sorry," Dean apologized, suddenly right beside him. "After last night, I hung the towels over the heater. Figured we might need them. Here. Take these."

A hand held out two powder-filled capsules, along with a cup of water.

Sam automatically shook his head, hoping there wouldn't be repercussions. The last time he'd accepted drugs from a buyer, the trip was enough to make him swear off the hard stuff. And if they were pain killers, he wasn't interested. They wouldn't work anyway.

Dean raised an eyebrow. His expression was unsurprised, but remained expectant. "They're just antibiotics, dude. You've probably heard that before. But I need to insist."

Sam hesitated, gauging the situation. He had a habit of over thinking things. Still, who's to say the pills weren't cyanide and he was only bought to fake the death of someone involved with mob? Dean might wait for him to kick the bucket before beating his face to an unrecognizable pulp, cutting off his fingertips-

"Oh, for-" Dean sighed impatiently. He grabbed Sam's hand and forced him to accept the pills. "Just take them, all right? I won't even watch. But if you cheek them or flush them and wind up with an infection, don't say I didn't warn you." He turned and left the bathroom. Sam heard him begin to get dressed.

His eyes dropped to the pills. Maybe he was making a big deal out of nothing. Seriously, what was the worst that could happen? He was a Giver. Didn't get much worse than that.

With a shrug, he threw back the pills, chasing them with water. The towel slipped from his shoulders, leaving him shivering. Hopefully they had a good twenty minutes before Dean wanted to leave. That way, he'd know if the pills planned on renting or buying.

Gripping the rim of the toilet, he rose to his feet. A wave of vertigo almost struck him down. It wasn't unbearable, just enough to remind him to take things slow. He emerged from the bathroom to find Dean waiting for him.

"Uh," Sam cleared his throat self-consciously. He realized he'd never said more than two words to Dean. So far, their conversations had been fairly one-sided. "I don't suppose you have any more clothes for me? I could wear the jeans from yesterday, but-"

"Don't sweat it," Dean shuffled backwards to a duffel, obviously wary of turning his back. Smart. "You can borrow a pair of my clothes until we pass a thrift store. The pants will be a bit short, but it's not like we'll be parading down main street. I've got an oversized jacket too."

He handed him some boxers, jeans, and a shirt.

"Great." Sam's tone was flat as he accepted the clothes.

He was just turning toward the bed when white hot _agony_ sliced through his skull. A low cry left him, shoulders hunching to cradle his head in his hands.

Damn it.

The pain spiked, enveloping the world around him. He was vaguely aware of his knees colliding with the carpet. Dean's hands were on his shoulders, guiding him to lay flat. Comforting syllables laced with alarm meant nothing to him. Every muscle in his body tensed with the onslaught of pain radiating through his skull. Distantly, he felt Dean straightening his legs. Toes clenched, teeth grinding together, it was all Sam could do not to unleash a scream.

His last coherent thought was that the pain kept getting worse. Every. Single. Time.

Images flashed through his mind.

_An attic filled with antiques, trembling under the force of something recently stowed away._

_Stacked boxes tumbling to the floor, scattering an array of teddy bears and porcelain dolls._

_A sheet falling away from a gold-framed mirror, engraved, 'Always and forever. Melanie.'_

_The face of a young girl appearing within the mirror._

_Her hand abruptly pressing against the glass, mouth opening in a scream._

Sam wildly shook his head as her cry reverberated in his mind. The high pitch threatened to deafen him. He tried to bring his hands up to cover his ears, only to find that he couldn't.

Eyes snapping open, he found himself flat on his back, pinned to the ground. Dean was straddling his chest, hands pinning his wrists to the ground. His expression was one of regretful determination.

"You with me?" He asked tightly. "Talk to me if you can hear me. You back?"

Sam nodded. The vision flashed through his mind yet again, the echo refreshing his fear. Nevertheless, it allowed him to report what he'd seen with absolute certainty.

"Words, dude. Give me something."

"There's a mirror," he finally choked out. "In an attic somewhere. I think a girl might be trapped inside it."

Dean eased off his chest, holding out his hands submissively. Of course. If he wanted to bring out the best in buyers, he only needed to have a vision. Sam refrained from scoffing. Give it a few hours. Dean would be anxious and impatient, and ready to punch Sam just as soon as look at him. That's how it went.

"All right, so it sounds like a cursed mirror." Dean's voice broke through his self-pity party. "Any idea where? A mirror in an attic doesn't exactly narrow the field."

Sam let his head drop to the carpet. He closed his eyes and tried to recall the details. There was a reflection within the mirror. A license plate outside. It was backwards, but…

"I need paper and a pen," he demanded without opening his eyes. With the pain still fresh, he couldn't rely on his memory.

Dean thrust a pen and flimsy pad of paper into his hands. Eyes still closed, Sam jotted down the license plate. It was backwards, but that shouldn't be a problem. When he was finished scrawling, he felt Dean lift the pad from his chest.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath. Damn, that sucked. A sheen of sweat coated his chest. Blearily, he watched Dean walk to a mirror and hold up the motel stationary.

J97-HGU

"California plates," Sam sputtered, trying to sit up.

The grin on Dean's face declared he'd struck gold. At least one of them could smile.

"Come on, we need to get going." He marched over to help Sam to his feet. Either he didn't notice how terrible Sam felt, or he didn't care. Sam scarcely had his feet under him before Dean was rushing around the room, packing.

His excitement wasn't contagious, but his urgency was. Sam's motions were still sluggish as he sat on a bed to pull on a t-shirt. He needed food. Fruit, a doughnut, anything with glucose in it.

Glancing around the room for a coffee pot - sugar packets, to be more precise - he was disappointed to see empty table space. Visions had a tendency to drain his reserves. Coupled with brief starvation, drugs, and a heart-pounding night terror… he was going downhill fast.

"We stopping for breakfast?" He asked, words muffled by the t-shirt over his face. Hopefully he didn't sound as desperate as he felt.

"We'll stop at a Gas 'n Sip once we have some miles behind us. I think I saw one on the way into town. It's not gourmet cuisine, but they have some awesome road food. You'll love it."

* * *

There wasn't a Gas 'n Sip on the edge of town. Or in the next town, or in the next.

The farther they traveled, the more desperate Sam became. Somewhere along the line, his desperation faded into exhausted confusion. He wanted to ask where they were going, but he couldn't muster the strength to talk, and decided it didn't matter.

His seat was comfortable. The sun was shining on his face. The window - though harder than a pillow – cradled his head just fine. He watched the treetops pass through hooded eyes, trying to make sense of the clouds. Such activities were more fun as a kid, but he found them more enthralling as an adult.

Dean had cranked the music when they first pulled onto the road. He drummed his hands against the steering wheel and sang along to classic rock songs. Sam didn't have the same taste in music, but he stopped hearing it clearly after the first hour. Little by little, everything grew quieter. The singing stopped, followed by the drumming. When Dean turned the music down, he asked a question, but it sounded like he was speaking underwater.

Sam didn't answer, letting his eyes fall closed. The sun shone through his eyelids, illuminating a wall of orange. Something was definitely wrong. But even when he felt the car lurch as it pulled off the road, he couldn't put his finger on it.

Dean turned off the engine, said something, patted Sam's chest once, and climbed out of the car. The scent of gasoline was enough to rouse him somewhat. He lifted his head and looked around in a fog. The car was parked beside a gas pump. His head felt like a bowling ball, too heavy for his neck. Trying to be gentle about it, he listed toward the passenger window.

_Thump._

Sam winced. Ow.

Dean reentered the car just then, holding something. A soothing litany of syllables was all Sam heard. His fingers were guided to wrap around a juice box. There was a straw poking out of it. Dean's hand encased his, bringing the straw to his lips. Feeling like he was on a school field trip, Sam automatically started drinking. Minutes passed before Dean's words began to make sense.

"There you go, there you go. Drink the whole thing down, all right? I don't know why you didn't say something earlier, man, but you're having the dinner of champions tonight. Could have it right now if you wanted, but I'm not sure that's such a great idea, especially when it's chips and candy… Sammy? You back with me?"

Sam mumbled a reply even he couldn't understand. His hand tightened around the juice box, nearly crushing it. Wetting his lips, he tried again, "It's Sam."

Dean let him hold the juice box on his own, retreating into the driver's seat. "Whatever you say." He pulled a second juice box from his jacket and unwrapped the straw. "Still doesn't explain whatever the hell this is. What happened? Why'd you crash?"

"The visions." He gulped, wincing at the rawness of his throat. "They take a lot out of me. Make me tired."

Dean didn't look too happy about that. He thrust the second juice box into Sam's free hand. "Please tell me this doesn't happen every time. I can't have you crashing in the middle of a hunt, dude."

Sam was already shaking his head. "Not usually. If I take care of myself, I'm usually okay. It didn't used to happen at all, but the visions got more intense as the years went on."

"Think they'll get worse?"

"I hope not," he answered softly. He tried not to think about it.

When he looked up, Dean was slowly nodding. There was a crease in his brow, like the answer troubled him. "All right. You keep nursing that, okay?" He nodded to the juice box before stepping out of the car. "I gas, you sip, right? I'm going to get us some staples, too."

Sam rolled his eyes. Staples, sure. Dean would probably return toting nachos and a slurpee. Though to be fair, Sam had been a fan of rainbow sour belts and all sorts of candy until his last owner got him hooked on health food. It made his visions clearer.

Five minutes later, Dean returned to the car with a case of juice boxes, a couple bags of chips, and skin mags. He was also tearing into a burrito as he tossed another juice box in Sam's direction.

Sam wanted to throw it back at him. Really? Was a banana too much to ask? He could already feel a couple muscles twitching from all the sugar in the last two juice boxes.

Instead of saying anything, he sank further down in his seat as they pulled onto the road again. He wasn't _exactly_ pouting, but resentment was building. He'd waited hours for food. The wrong kind of food. After he had a vision, which was the only reason they were on the road when he felt this terrible.

Sometimes, he hated life.

* * *

Dean was whistling when they crossed the California state line. He'd gotten a call from Bobby after nightfall telling him that not only was the license plate registered to a Cynthia Steinberg, but that she was the proud owner of an antique mirror purchased at an auction two weeks ago. Well, perhaps not _so_ proud. The mirror was, after all, in her attic. Probably after a series of brief and terrifying glances into it. But regardless, if all they had to do was drape it and destroy it, the job should be easier than a routine salt and burn.

They might even have time to hit the beach before working a second job. Check out the chicks, catch some sun… he glanced over at Sam, slumped against the passenger door. On second thought, maybe he shouldn't let Sam roam just yet. The kid was exhausted, and there was an air of tension about him.

They needed to sleep before doing anything else. No matter how easy, they still had a job tomorrow.

He pulled into a motel parking lot just a couple miles off the main highway. There was a bar next door, and fairly busy too. Dean felt it was high time he started hustling pool again. Double rooms were more expensive than singles, and Sam could use a few extra meals a day.

After booking them a room and making the short drive, he gently shook Sam awake. "Sam? Sam, come on, wake up. You can sleep all you want once we're inside the room."

When his eyes blinked open, Sam stared at the dashboard, as if putting the pieces together. Then his eyes shifted to Dean. They were a little sad. "We're stopping for the night?"

"Yep. Up and at 'em. We'll check out the cursed mirror tomorrow."

Only after Sam climbed out of the car, Dean noticed the group of bikers hanging out a couple doors down. Cursing, he rose from his own seat and shut the car door. Would Sam try to signal them in some way? Or was he used to being around other people?

To his surprise, Sam didn't make a move. Literally. He wasn't signaling them, but he wasn't… acting normal either. He just stood there, frozen, observing their aggressive demeanor. Dean figured it was safe enough to grab the bags from the trunk, but he was quick about it, and even quicker to take Sam's elbow to lead him into the room.

As soon as the door was shut, Sam yanked his elbow away. Raising an eyebrow, Dean dropped the bags on the nearest bed.

"What's going on?"

Sam inhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. He sat on the far bed, putting as much distance between them as possible. "Nothing's _wrong_. I'm fine. Just need some sleep is all."

 _What, all day isn't enough for you?_ Dean wanted to shoot back, but he bit his tongue. It had been a rough couple days for both of them. Nothing to fight about. And he didn't know much about visionaries. If the kid needed more sleep, he needed more sleep... But he'd need to suck it up at some point. This sleeping beauty crap couldn't happen all the damn time.

"I'm going to hit the bar next door. Hustle a little pool. If you want to stay here, that's cool. I'll leave you the remote, water, food… all within reach. But I will need to cuff you again, until I know I can trust you."

Sam's head jerked up at that. "I don't need to be _cuffed_ ," he snapped. "If I wanted to escape, I could have made a run for it just now. I didn't."

Dean crossed his arms. He was taken off guard by the hostility in Sam's tone. "This life doesn't exactly keep up with the Jones', but it's not half bad. There's no reason you should want to escape. I'm just saying, as far as trust goes-"

"What?"

Dean was losing his patience. "You haven't earned it yet."

"I'm sick of _cuffs_ ," Sam spat, muttering to himself now. "I'm sick of rope and cord and zip ties and anything else people use to bind me. I signed up for this life, damn it, I _know_ what it means to be a Giver. But still, you all insist on treating me like an unwilling _freak_."

Dean just stared, his mouth agape. He had no idea what brought this on. Unprepared didn't begin to describe what he felt. Was this part of the vision thing or had Sam woken up on the wrong side of the front seat?

He glanced at his watch. Whatever this was, they needed to button it up. The bar wouldn't be open forever, and he had no desire to babysit all night. He just wasn't that guy. He wanted to be. But he wasn't.

Eying Sam, who was still muttering to himself, Dean slipped a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket.

He ignored the guilt in his gut. He needed Sam, but that didn't make them friends. If he had to enforce a little discipline to ensure he wouldn't return to an empty motel room, that was his call. In a few weeks, when he felt he could trust Sam, he wouldn't need the cuffs.

As he neared the bed, Sam's shoulders tensed. He tried to brace himself for a little resistance.

Unfortunately for him, a _little resistance_ wasn't what he got.

Sam lashed out with a right hook before he even reached the bed. Spots danced in his vision when it connected with his jaw. Before he could recover, a foot planted itself in his solar plexus and launched him backwards. He fell against the wall, grunting as the air was knocked out of him. The handcuffs fell from his hand when he slid to the floor.

All right, damn it. Enough was enough.

Instead of running for the door, Sam darted forward. Dean hooked an ankle and rammed his shoulder into Sam's thigh. They hit the floor, punching, kicking, biting, and scratching for the upper hand. Dean tried to pin Sam beneath him, but the guy was huge and desperate. Not a great combination.

It wasn't long before they ran out of floor space and Dean found himself pinned between Sam and the wall. Chest heaving, panting heavily, Sam rammed a forearm against Dean's throat. His other hand ran over Dean's hips and waist, as if searching for something. Dean tried to talk, but he only got a knee to his ribs for his trouble.

When Sam pulled the tracker from his jacket pocket, Dean realized why he hadn't run at first. There was nothing stopping him now. A flicker of uncertainly flashed through his eyes before he shoved away from Dean and bolted for the door.

If he thought he was getting away that easily, though, he had another thing coming. Dean pushed himself up, wincing as he tried to catch his breath.

Sam was forced to stop at the door to open it.

It was all the time Dean needed. He leapt onto Sam's back, briefly doubting the intelligence of such a decision. One of his arms snaked around Sam's neck, putting pressure on his carotid arteries. He felt Sam's muscles tense as he realized what Dean was trying to do. In the next instant, Dean was being repeatedly slammed against the wall. But he didn't loosen his hold.

"Keep it down in there!" The shout of an irate neighbor was muffled through the wall.

Sam's resistance was weakening. He staggered and dropped to one knee. Dean heard gasping noises coming from his mouth.

"Stop fighting me," Dean warned through gritted teeth. "I will put you out."

But it seemed Sam was past all reason. Either he didn't hear Dean, or he wasn't ready to give in. He made one last attempt to pull Dean's arm from around his neck. Then he went boneless and slumped to the floor. Dean's elbow hit the floor before Sam's forehead could, but he was careful about releasing him. They'd already taken enough hits. Both of them.

"Jesus Christ." Dean sat back on his haunches, wiping a hand over his face. It was damp with sweat. His heart pounded wildly in his ears. Legs shaking, he crossed the room to retrieve the handcuffs. Subduing Sam was more difficult than he'd anticipated. Sam's technique was crap, but he made up for it by thinking on his feet.

Dean cuffed Sam's uninjured wrist. He then dragged him to the radiator in the corner of the room. Even if he could've dumped Sam onto one of the beds, which was doubtful considering his throbbing ribs, he wasn't in the best of moods. Sam needed to remember who was in charge here.

After cuffing him to the radiator, Dean recovered the tracking device on the floor. It wasn't broken, but the screen was cracked. He shot a glare in Sam's direction. It wasn't like he could hit the nearest Radio Shack to pick up another one.

A glance in the mirror revealed a bruise already forming on his jaw. The swelling wasn't too bad. He could still hit the bar. For the sake of Sam, who'd just made the mistake of biting the hand that fed him.

Before he left, Dean gathered some items from around the room. The Gideon Bible was the only reading material available. He tossed it to Sam's side. Along with a full juice box, an empty water bottle, and a blanket. The guy _was_ still recovering from hypoglycemia.

A nagging feeling told him to check Sam over for injuries. But he was still pissed, and it was pretty damn clear who'd had the upper hand during that round. Dean had gotten the worst of it. His ribs would be aching for days. His hand throbbed where Sam had literally bit him. And a lump was already forming on the back of his head.

No, he decided. Sam was fine. With one last disgruntled glance toward him, he left the room.


	4. Rebellion

He was on the floor.

That was the first thing Sam realized when he woke up. Carpet pressed against his shoulder blades. Not the plush kind, but the thin crap that only passed as carpet because it was warmer than no carpet at all.

He turned his head, struggling to open his eyes. A headache was raging just behind his forehead. The remains of a vision beat it by far, but he was exhausted enough to moan in protest. Enough pain. Uncle.

Opening his eyes, he gazed around. A motel room. Why he was there was another matter entirely.

Something _clinked_ when he shifted. Blinking hard, he turned his attention to… handcuffs. Huh. He was handcuffed to a radiator. Okay.

 _Come on, brain,_ he mentally encouraged. _Work._

Bits and pieces began coming back to him. He'd been driving with Dean, feeling like crap. They stopped for the night, and then-

Oh. The bikers.

For lack of a better term, their aggression _infected_ him. He'd lashed out at Dean because he hadn't wanted to wear handcuffs. That had worked out great.

He gingerly sat up. New aches and pains were prevalent. His eye was swollen where Dean had sucker punched him. But it could have been worse. The lights were on. Dean was gone. And according to the digital clock on the nightstand, less than twenty minutes had passed since they'd arrived, which meant Dean wouldn't be coming back for a while.

Sam tugged on the handcuffs. The radiator was old, but that wasn't a good thing. It was built like a tank. He gave another tug, this time with more force. Nothing. He couldn't pick the lock, displace the radiator, or yell for help. It was time to stop overthinking this and just _do_ what needed to be done. Before Dean returned.

He grimaced as he rested his cuffed hand on the floor. There was no other way. As he lined up his foot to dislocate his thumb, Sam couldn't help but realize that he didn't even hate Dean. This wasn't about Dean. The guy was rough around the edges, but he was better than half the owners Sam had served. No… this was about location and timing.

As soon as they'd crossed the California state line, Sam's thoughts had drifted to Stanford. To Jessica. He needed to see her. It had been years. Years of having visions for hunters and their mentors. And for what? Was Jessica even happy? If he didn't find out soon, he'd go batshit crazy.

Breathing heavily, Sam raised his heel and slammed it down onto his hand.

"Je-sus _Christ_ ," he cursed through gritted teeth, clenching his eyes shut against the pain. His hand throbbed. He was out of practice. Completely missed the thumb.

A choked laugh escaped before he lined up his hand to try again. Aim was key.

This time, there was an audible _crack_ when his foot made contact. Along with a _clink_ as the handcuffs chain broke.

Sam held up his hand, staring dumbly at the cuff and broken link. Seriously?

He'd missed the thumb again, breaking at least one metacarpal. Pins and needles spread over the top of his hand. It was already starting to swell and his fingers were stiff. He should have counted himself lucky. At least it was his left hand.

Climbing to his feet, Sam was surprised when his knees almost gave out. The fight must have taken more out of him than he thought. He stared around the room, momentarily dazed to be free.

That is, until he saw the remains of the giant burrito Dean bought earlier, neatly wrapped on the side table. He dove for it, almost knocking the table over. His shaking hands make quick work of the wrapper. Then he was wolfing down mouthful after mouthful of beans, onions, cheese, and sauce. All wrapped in soft tortilla goodness. It should have been refrigerated hours ago, but as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he discarded it. It was solid food and it was _perfect._

And he was thirsty.

The burrito wrapper fell from his hands. He walked into the bathroom to discover cheap paper cups stacked beside the sink. With a scoff, he ignored them and stuck his mouth under the faucet. Cool, soothing water trickled down his throat. So simple. So _vital._

Feeling his insides give a telltale shift, he made use of the toilet when he was done drinking. It was about freakin' time, too. Maybe he'd gotten a little too used to all the fiber in health food.

Basic needs taken care of, he shook off the wave of drowsiness that threatened to overwhelm him. Dean could be back at any moment.

He crossed the room to the duffel bags. Surely Dean had a shaving kit of some sort. After digging around, he found a shopping bag of brand new toiletries. No doubt his own. There wasn't a razor, but he snatched one from Dean's kit before returning to the bathroom. The handcuff jingled around his wrist as he shaved, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair. It was awkward with one hand, but he looked less like a raving lunatic when he was done. He could blend into a crowd now.

The nasty stuff came next. Ever so carefully, he removed the blades from the razor. His tracking chip needed to come out. There was no way Dean wouldn't find him and drag him back to the motel otherwise.

Bracing himself, Sam felt for the bump on the back of his neck. The chip was just below the skin, so he wouldn't need to cut too deep. With a shaky inhale, he yanked the razor to the right. The sharp pain wasn't a surprise, nor the blood trickling into his shirt collar. But he grit his teeth, breaths growing heavy when he was forced to worm his fingernails into the wound.

"Come on. Where are you?"

The chip was higher than he thought.

Bloody fingerprints lined the sink as time ticked on. He dragged the razor over his skin two, three, four more times. Finally, he was able to yank the device from his skin. It slipped from his fingers and _pinged_ against the bathroom floor.

For all the pain it had caused him, it didn't look like anything special. It resembled a thin, square memory card. There were numbers stamped into it. Sam bent down to take a closer look. He'd been drugged when it was inserted, and as such, he'd never seen it before.

A sudden thump against the motel room door stole his attention. Head jerking up, Sam automatically took shelter against the bathroom wall, praying Dean hadn't returned. His heart pounded harder, legs tensed to run. When no further sound accompanied the thump, he chalked it up to unsteady drunks on their way back to their room.

The urgency of the situation struck him anew. He hurried over to the duffel and dumped it, choosing the warmest clothes he could find. His limbs were weak and uncooperative, especially his numb broken hand, but he managed to strip and put on the clothes without too much trouble. There was still the problem of shoes, however. He'd just need to wear dark wool socks for now, and hope no one noticed.

His toiletries went into the empty duffel. So did some extra clothes and juice boxes. Dean hadn't left any cash or weapons behind. The only logical place to keep weapons was in the car, but he hadn't left the Impala keys either. It didn't matter. Sam would fare well enough with what he had.

There was a map of local attractions on the table. It only detailed roads leading to things like the local history museum. Again, it was better than nothing. He wouldn't know which direction to walk if he didn't know where he was.

Hand tingling, neck bleeding, Sam zipped the duffel bag and stepped into the night.

* * *

Dean was feeling good as he sauntered across the parking lot. Sure, his ribs ached, but he'd had a couple beers – on the house, thanks to one babe of a bartender – and he'd come out a couple hundred bucks ahead in pool. It wasn't a fortune, but it was enough to buy Sam a cheap suit. Sam needed to dress professionally if he was to come along on this cursed mirror hunt.

Someone from the bar called out to him, praising him for his game. That didn't happen often enough. He briefly turned with a wave of acknowledgement, steps distancing him from the bar. Cold air seeped under his jacket and he pulled it tightly around himself.

The line of motel rooms was dark, except for the room he'd left Sam in. He was pissed with his attitude, but leaving him in the dark had seemed cruel. And anyway, the glow was a much-needed beacon when he was buzzed and flying high on victory.

He reached inside his pocket for the room key. As he approached the door, Dean felt the warmth of stale heat from within. Thank God. It was cold as balls outside.

The smile on his face died when he opened the door.

_Shit, shit, shit…_

His eyes darted around, taking in the handcuff attached to the radiator, the scattered pile of folded clothes, the pile of _Sam's_ clothes… was that _blood_ on the shirt? Dean's stomach dropped. He whipped out his gun, expression hardening. Had some disgruntled hunter or huntee broken into the room and abducted Sam? Perhaps someone who needed visions as badly as he did?

Call it instinct or training, but after hunting for most of his life, he knew when to heed the feeling of dread spreading through him. He was unprepared for the protectiveness it mingled with. Sam's previous owners had abused him. If one of them had him now…

Dean's footsteps were almost silent as he made his way to the bathroom. The lights were off, but that didn't mean shit. When he flipped on the light switch, the dread in his gut was replaced by anger.

Blood was everywhere. It pooled between tiles and dotted the counter. Bloody fingerprints lined the sink rim and faucet. His razor had been dismantled, blades splattered with crimson. He snatched up a white washcloth, now stained, struggling to absorb the scene. The blood could only be Sam's. If someone had harmed him, Dean would find them and offer some words of wisdom. Maybe he'd return the favor while he was at it.

Something glinted on the floor. What the hell?

He bent to retrieve a metal plate of some kind. Stamped with a serial number, it was partially bent, as if it had been pried…

His skin went cold. As if it had been pried from a body.

Dean was reaching for his cell phone even before he decided if Sam had done it himself, or if someone had done it for him. There was no way to know for sure. He hadn't received a voice message with any demands, and if Sam had run, he might have had the smarts to ditch his tracking chip first. But the handcuffs chain had been snapped in two. Sam didn't have that kind of strength. Did he?

Dean held the phone to his ear as he wandered back into the room. Clothes everywhere, what a mess-

A wrapper crinkled under his boot. He instantly recognized it as the burrito wrapper.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, tossing the gun onto the nearest bed. Unless Sam's abductors had a hankering for Mexican food, the wrapper could only mean one thing: Sam had escaped on his own. Anger sparked through him again. He was pissed at Sam, but if he was completely honest with himself, he was even more pissed at himself for leaving him alone. It was icy out there. Sam didn't even have shoes, damn it.

"What?" a gruff voice barked through the phone. "Someone better be missing or dead."

"Bobby, don't hang up."

"Dean? You have any idea what time it is? I ain't as young as I used to be. It's damned hard to fall asleep-"

"I need you to help me find someone. I've been working with someone new, and well-" He gripped the phone until his knuckles were white. Bobby didn't approve of hunters who purchased Givers. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint the man who'd been like a father to him. Maybe he should leave the details out. At least until he figured out how to break the news. Preferably without being disowned.

"You got a partner?" Bobby yawned. Pages shifted in the background, like he'd fallen asleep at his desk again. "Didn't think you needed back up. You've been denying it for the last two months, even when I've had to personally rescue your ass."

"Yeah, um…" Dean ran a hand over his head. "I guess you could say I've got a partner. He's trying to locate a Giver who could help us, but all we've got is a number on an extracted tracking chip. Think you could help us?"

He could almost see Bobby's posture stiffen. "We talking about a stolen Giver or a runaway?"

"Runaway, we think."

"Now, son," Bobby warned, "I don't know who you're working with, but using a Giver – especially a claimed one – to help you solve a case is a slippery slope. One case becomes two, then three. Before you know it, you don't remember how to hunt without them. Usually around the time their owner shows up."

"Come on, give me a little credit." Dean closed his eyes, feeling like dirt. "I know most hunters who partner with Givers are bad news. I've got watch, all right?"

There was a sigh on the end of the line. It carried a weight that would have intrigued Dean at any other time. But time wasn't something he could afford to waste right now.

"Bobby," he prompted.

"Hold your horses, boy, I'm grabbing a pen." A drawer slammed. "Give me the number. I'll call in a few favors and trace it back to the Giver. It won't tell us where the Giver is, but it might tell us where they hail from. You never know. They might be bold enough to seek out old friends."

"Thanks, Bobby."

Dean snapped the phone shut without waiting for a response. The only thing he could do now was pack up the Impala. He wouldn't be able to sleep until he found Sam. If someone had told him a couple months ago that he'd spend tonight searching the streets like a worried parent searching for their child, he might have laughed.

But he wasn't laughing now.


	5. The Fire

Sam walked. He walked until his feet were numb and he wondered who had the nerve to declare that wool stayed warm when wet. He walked until he slipped over frost and patches of black ice. Until he wanted to turn around and head back to the motel.

He never did. But he stopped once or twice to curse the stars.

He kept to the backroads, realizing that Dean had probably noticed his absence by now. For a town so small, there were numerous roads in. And out. Ditches ran alongside all of them, deep enough that Sam could hide from any car he even suspected to be the Impala.

His broken hand was numb, yet tingling. Though he hardly felt it, he knew he needed to see a doctor soon. If he waited too long, he might permanently lose sensation in his fingers.

Every once in a while, he'd take stock of his other injuries, but they weren't bothering him as much as the cold was. The cuts on his neck, the raw patch on his chest, the bruises over his rib cage, the ligature marks on his wrists… those wounds were superficial, at least individually, and not his main concern.

His main concern – other than not freezing to death – was heading south to Stanford. Upon further inspection of the tourist map he'd snagged from the motel room, he found the town to be only an hour north of campus. It was eerie, really, but if the alternative was hitchhiking all night, he'd gladly accept the coincidence and shut up about it.

He came to an unmarked fork in the road and reached into the duffel bag over his shoulder to retrieve the map. Most roads weren't marked unless they were called things like _Marilyn Lane_ or _Elizabeth Road_ , but they were shaded on the map well enough. He mused over it for a few minutes, feeling more like a boy running away from home than a grown man-

Pain bolted through his skull. It drove him to his knees, dragging on and on, until he clenched his eyes shut and set his jaw against a tortured yell. Fire flashed before his eyes, destroying, consuming, spreading… it climbed bedroom drapes and burned rugs to ash. Someone was yelling, but Sam couldn't hear them over the roaring in his ears. Glass knick knacks cracked from the sheer heat of the fire, distorted flames reflected over their curves. Fire engulfed him before he could run, before he could react-

He swayed on his knees, caught between the vision and reality. Ice-cold air breezed over his skin, making him shiver, but relief flooded through him. The breeze meant he was safe. Black spots before his eyes encouraged him to duck his head. Passing out on the side of the road wouldn't allow him to hide from Dean.

Struggling to steady his breaths, Sam raised his head and tried to get his bearings. The fork in the road. He'd been reading the map now half-submerged in a puddle of slushy water. His jeans hadn't fared too well either. They were drenched from the knees down. At least in front. Frustrated and helpless, feeling like the situation couldn't get any worse, he swallowed a lump in his throat. He stared at the road until the burn behind his eyes disappeared. Then he smiled sadly.

Behold: Giver extraordinaire, ready to sit in a puddle of his own urine and cry because life isn't _fair_.

He wasn't four years old anymore, but sometimes he felt like he was. With a chuckle and amused headshake, Sam rose to his feet, albeit unsteadily. His hand was shaking when he reached inside the duffel for a juice box. Just the thing to cheer up a four-year-old at heart.

Though not thirsty in the slightest – in fact, the fiery vision made him want to vomit – he emptied the juice box in less than a minute. It took a great deal of self-restraint not to throw it into the bushes as an improvised _screw you_ to life. Instead, he tucked it into the duffel with little more than a grumble. Knowing himself as well as he did, he might have searched for the box after throwing it, or at the very least, felt guilty about it. What was the point in rebelling if his actions only hurt himself?

One thing was for certain: he couldn't hurt himself more than the visions did. And for what? A couple flashes of fire that revealed no details he could follow, no hints as to where the fire would occur. Without a scrap of intel, it was a useless vision. And he hated it when useless visions knocked him on his ass.

Retrieving the soaked map with thumb and forefinger, Sam tried to decide if it could be saved. The weight of water tore it down the center.

Whatever.

He let it fall to the ground, one foot flattening it with a _squish_ when he chose the right fork. There was a difference between littering and letting go.

About an hour later, when Sam's limbs were stiff and he was more than ready to take an everlasting nap, headlights shone just over his shoulder. He numbly glanced behind him, thoughts muddled and slow. Curling his fingers into a semblance of a thumbs up, he lifted his arm. Part of him wanted to dive into the street and stop the car with his body, but reason prevailed.

His knees almost buckled in shock when the car slowed, tires crunching over rocks half-embedded in the dirt. He thought it strange that he hadn't noticed the change in terrain, but hell, with frozen feet, he could soon walk over broken glass without feeling it.

When he turned around, he saw that it was a pick-up truck. What little light the moon emitted revealed doors outlined in rust, chipped paint, and a windshield cracked down the center. It was the most beautiful vehicle he'd ever seen. He hobbled to the driver's door when the truck came to a stop.

The window screeched in protest as the driver rolled it down manually. The driver wasn't the gruff, backwoods type he expected, but a young woman with shoulder-length blond hair. Dirty blonde, as Jess would say.

"You lost?" the woman asked, eying him from head to toe. She raised an eyebrow at his lack of footwear.

"Not exactly," Sam shivered. "Just trying to head south for the winter. Had my shoes stolen in the process."

"Sounds like a rough night." She paused, as if considering something. "I'm headed south myself. Redwood City, actually. Normally I don't pick up hitchhikers, but half-frozen as you are, you don't look like much of a threat."

"That's great," he burst out. At her wary expression, he continued, "I mean about Redwood City. I'm trying to get to Stanford University."

"College boy, huh? I suppose that's a bonus. But listen up, college boy: I've got a gun on my hip. Plenty of practice with it, too. If I slam on the brakes and tell you to beat it, you're on your own. You got that?"

"Yes, ma'am." Sam tried to look as pathetic as possible. He begged with his eyes, hoping against hope that she'd take pity on him. She'd already cranked the heater up and everything. Warm air wafted through the open window, thawing his cheekbones.

Finally, she nodded. "Get in."

He grinned, hurrying around to the passenger door. There was a puddle of ice in the center of the road that nearly landed him on his back. The slip wasn't something he could hide under the harsh glare of her headlights. Sheepishly regaining his balance, he managed to climb into the truck with considerably less trouble. It smelled faintly of fish and mothballs, but he couldn't have cared less.

"I'm Meg." The woman held out her hand.

"Sam." He shook it firmly, catching her shudder at how cold his hand was.

"Buckle up, Sam."

He fumbled for the seatbelt. Frozen fingers didn't make it any easier.

After rolling up the window, Meg eased her foot off the brake, and they began moving down the road. Sam was amazed by how easy it seemed. They covered distance at an extraordinary pace, sitting comfortably on padded seats in a heated compartment. It was something he would never take for granted again.

"Been in California long?" He was jarred from his thoughts by her question.

"Uh, no," he mumbled, still shivering. "Just arrived, as a matter of fact. Road trip. To visit my… girlfriend." It was stupid to hope Jess hadn't moved on by now, despite his wishes for her to find happiness. But he couldn't help it.

It was a matter of luck that Meg didn't press him for details. "That's sweet of you. A road trip brought me to California, too. Although I must have been on one hell of a bender, because I remember jack. As in nothing, not the liquor. Though I'm sure a lot of Jack was involved."

He quirked a smile. Though he'd never been one for drinking himself into oblivion, Jess had regaled him with so many tales that he almost felt like he'd experienced it himself. "Let me guess," he started. "Three cities over, with no recollection of how you arrived?"

She scoffed. "I wish. I came here from Andover, Massachusetts. About as far as you can travel without crossing any borders, you know? My receipts showed three days worth of bus tickets, with plenty of lost time in between. I'm pretty sure I hitchhiked. That's where liquid courage will land you. I was lucky I didn't get my ass beat. Anyway, when I saw you on the side of the road, I figured you and I might have crossed some of the same bridges in life."

Sam felt her shoot him a sidelong glance.

"Looks like I was right."

Warmth from the heater was making him drowsy, but he stifled a yawn and tried to act interested. If she was in the mood for conversation, he'd rather talk about her than himself.

"Where exactly did you end up? Couldn't have been too bad, since you're still in California. Unless-" He threw her a sidelong glance of his own, laced with amusement. "Unless you're still recovering from the fallout."

She laughed before resting a hand on her chest in mock outrage. "Hell, no. That was my first and last three-day bender, and it was almost… five years ago? Yeah, about five years. Maybe a little longer. I woke up on the outskirts of a herring fishery in Pillar Point Harbor. You know it?"

"Yeah," Sam answered, feeling his heart skip a beat. "I know it."

Pillar Point was the first place he was taken after signing away his life for Jessica's freedom. He still remembered the black hood that had dropped over his head once he put the pen down. The auction. The bids. The _Come Again!_ sign on the way out of town.

"Figured you'd know the place, being from Stanford and all," Meg continued, oblivious to his inner turmoil. "Anyway, I think they thought I was homeless. The head honcho offered me a job on the spot. Working in a fishery isn't my dream job, but at the time, I needed money to get home to Massachusetts. So I accepted."

"And you never left," Sam absently murmured.

She chuckled, brushing her hair back with one hand. "Never got around to it, I guess. The truth is, college was never really my scene. Or it was _too_ much my scene, obviously. I had to get out of there. Unfortunately, there's something to the saying _old habits die hard_. We've had a small break this herring season, and, well…"

"Yeah?"

He saw her wince by the glow of the dash lights.

"Last night, I had a couple beers with some coworkers to celebrate. Just a couple, I swear. Next thing I know, I'm an hour north of Redwood City in some sleazy motel. I had the hangover of a lifetime, I'm telling you. I tried to sleep it off most of today. When I finally woke up, I felt well enough to drive, thank goodness. The herring wait for no fisherman. Or fisherwoman, as the case may be. Worked out for you though, didn't it? I stumbled across your sorry-looking self, and here we are…"

Meg kept talking, but her words were lost on Sam. It sounded like she was asking him where he was from. He wanted to answer her, really he did, but it was like the seat molded to his body, allowing him to sink further into it. Coupled with the heat and soft white noise of the heater, it did him in. He slumped against the door and surrendered to sleep.

* * *

Dean was frustrated as hell. He couldn't understand why a town so small had so many roads. By this point, he figured he'd crossed them all and traveled the length of them at least once, but there was no sign of Sam. How far could a guy without shoes go anyway?

Though it seemed hopeless, Dean kept looking. He changed the radio station whenever a commercial came on, and tried to enjoy the music. But all he could think about was how cold it was outside. Sam might not survive the night without some form of shelter. He might have hitched a ride, but if that was the case, Dean had no idea where to search.

Maybe he should start calling the nearest hospitals to see if someone matching Sam's description had been brought in. He might have more luck. Just as he reached for his phone, it rang. Without taking his eyes off the road, Dean answered it and held it up to his ear.

"Bobby?"

"Dean, I have some info on the Giver you guys are looking for. Still think it's a bad idea to track him down, but if you're dead set on it, it looks like the chip was implanted at Stanford University. Sam Wesson is the name, correct?"

Dean blinked, realizing Sam had never mentioned his last name. "Yeah, I think so."

"He was transferred to Pillar Point Harbor and auctioned off shortly afterwards. First buyer was a hunter named Walt Sanders. Real son of a bitch, sounds like. Only kept Sam for six months before selling him to another hunter, Roy Carnell. I tell you, boy, in the last five years, Sam's been passed around to over fourteen hunters. It's no wonder he ran away-"

"Don't get me wrong, Bobby, I appreciate the work you've done. But I'm looking to find him, not write his autobiography. Have you come across anything that might give us a hint about where he's going?"

"Since you asked so _nicely_ ," Bobby drawled. "He signed a contract that voided the contract of another Giver, Jessica Moore. Seeing as how both his parents are dead and he's an only child – not that you're _interested_ in his history – my guess is, he's going to see her. He was a senior when he voided her contract, but she was only a freshman. Since it took over a year for her to return to school after she was released, she's a senior now. She lives on campus in student housing. Building two, apartment 12C. That the info you wanted, hotshot?"

Dean winced. "Yeah, thanks, Bobby. Sorry for… all that, earlier. I guess I don't need to ask if there's another hunter around who can take care of the cursed mirror case?"

"Yeah, I'll put someone on it. Just get the info you need from Sam. Then let the man be. You idjit."

Dean couldn't help but crack a smile when the line went dead. At the next corner, he took a left and ignored the speed limit signs. Driving with a lead foot might be the only way to catch Sam if Stanford was where he was headed.

* * *

"Hey." Someone nudged Sam's shoulder.

He came awake slowly, surprised to find himself in the cab of a pick-up truck. Once glance at Meg was enough to remind him what happened. He blinked at her once and then looked around. The truck was parked just outside student housing.

A nervous jolt ran through him. They'd arrived so quickly that he'd had little time to prepare himself. A part of him never believed he'd make it this far without being caught. And he probably wouldn't have, if Meg hadn't been there to pick him up.

"This is your stop," Meg said, gently coaxing him out of the truck. "It was nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your time with your girlfriend."

"Thanks," he finally uttered, voice thick with sleep. "Thanks for everything. Really."

She merely nodded and smiled. Sam could take a hint. He opened the passenger door and stepped onto the street. Cold immediately seeped through his socks, but he hardly noticed. This was it. He was going to see Jessica for the first time in over five years. Hopefully she lived in the same apartment she'd mentioned over the phone. Otherwise, things would get awkward.

At some point, he must have shut the truck door and walked to the sidewalk, because he came back to himself to hear the truck drive away behind him. It was now or never.

He let himself in the main gate, only mildly startled that it wasn't locked. He'd been diligent about locking it when he lived here, but he couldn't expect everyone to share his discipline. They hadn't grown up in the same household as him.

His steps were quiet as he climbed the stairs to the third floor. Apartment 10C… 11C… 12C. Sam took a deep breath. He could do this. He raised his uninjured hand to knock, trying to think of an explanation for showing up at too-early AM.

The instant his knuckles rapped on the door, he yanked them back. The door was hot. _Really_ hot.

More cautiously, he felt the door with the back of his hand, only to pull away with a _hiss_. It was then that he noticed the firelight flickering beyond the window blinds. Strange. There was no fireplace inside the apartment.

 _The vision,_ he thought. Dread knotted his stomach. _Oh, my God._

Adrenaline flooded his system as he backed away from the door. He raised a foot and kicked it in, indifferent to the searing pain that radiated in his heel. Splinters of wood separated from the frame when the door gave way. It banged against the wall, hanging at an angle on broken hinges.

"Jess!" His voice was drowned out by the _whoosh_ of fire. It grew louder as fresh air filled the entryway.

The apartment was engulfed in flames. They climbed the walls and traveled over the ceiling. Heat washed over him in waves, so hot that it was dangerous to breathe. One deep breath might burn his throat, causing it to swell and suffocate him. But Jess might be inside. He couldn't just leave her.

Holding his jacket sleeve over his nose and mouth, Sam ran inside. His eyes watered from the blinding light and rising smoke. Instinct made him drop to his knees and awkwardly crawl. The rugs were charred under his hand. He could feel blisters forming on his palm.

The fire was consuming all the oxygen in the room. He tried to inhale, but no relief accompanied the action. About halfway to the bedroom, Sam realized he was in trouble. The flames were growing more intense, which meant he was nearing the source of the fire. If Jess was still in the apartment, she was dead by now.

Stumbling to his feet, Sam swayed, feeling light-headed and dizzy. His legs carried him the remaining distance to the bedroom, where he again fell to his knees. When he looked up, horror gripped his heart.

"NO!"

Jessica was on the ceiling. Charred to black, she appeared to be a silhouette. There was no mistaking her form. Flames billowed outward around her, as if her death was the very reason for the fire.

Tears left his eyes, only to dry up on his cheeks. Sam felt his skin begin to crack and peel, but he felt it in the depths of his mind. Jess was dead. Nothing else mattered. Everything he'd done for her, everything he'd sacrificed… it had all been for nothing.

Unable to cope with the shock of what he saw, he fell backwards onto the carpet. He could do little more than stare up at the flaming ceiling. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't fight anymore. He'd spent the last five years fighting. Enough was enough. Maybe this was the way it was meant to be.

Someone was yelling, but Sam couldn't hear them over the roaring in his ears. It wasn't Jess. That was all he knew. Overwhelmed with grief, feeling his throat close up, he shut his eyes and prayed for the fire to take him quickly. Then he would be with Jess. Forever.

Hands fell on his chest, violently shaking him. Sam pried open his eyes to see the blurry form of Dean leaning over him, mouth opening and closing with muted shouts. Now he knew Jessica's death had broken him. Dean wasn't here, he couldn't be. He was miles away, in a small town-

There was no time to brace himself before he was hauled up and over Dean's shoulders in a fireman's carry. The action raised him up into the smoke, where it was impossible to breathe. His ribs were constricted by his own weight. Though he no longer cared to escape the fire, his body wouldn't let him give up without a fight. It hitched, desperately trying to pull air into his lungs.

Dean was moving now. Furniture passed in a blur. There was a deafening _crash_ , and the floor rushed up to meet Sam. His muscles tensed, bracing for impact, but it never came. Instead, his body lurched as Dean caught himself on one knee and again rose to his feet.

They passed a table of glass knick knacks, cracked from the heat of the fire. Sam found himself mesmerized by distorted flames reflecting over their surfaces.

He couldn't pull a full breath, not even when a rush of night air breezed over his face. His vision was fading, though blaring sirens kept him from passing out. Red-tinted stairs drifted below. Sam was contemplating whether the journey was worth staying conscious for when Dean's voice broke through his haze.

"Sam, are you with me? Try to stay awake, okay? Once we reach the ambulance, they should have some oxygen for us-" He broke off into a coughing fit, wheezing with every inhale.

Sam grimaced as he felt the shoulders beneath him tremble with effort. A gate _clanged,_ and then they were lurching across the lawn. About that time, Dean's legs gave out. He grunted when they hit the ground.

The impact wasn't as painful as Sam expected, but he hadn't the strength to roll over onto his back. The grass felt blissfully cold on his face. Running footsteps pounded over the ground. Clinical, efficient hands cradled his head to align his neck. Others rolled him onto a backboard. Unfamiliar voices barked orders, and something was pressed over his nose and mouth.

He tried to sit up, hands flailing to remove it. He couldn't _breathe_.

"Take it easy," a stranger ordered, grabbing his wrists to restrain him. Someone else pressed his shoulders down. He fought their hold in a rush of panic. Everything was happening too fast. They were supposed to help him, and yet, their presence was suffocating, dragging him down, surrounding him with body heat when he was already on fire…

"We're going to need the Ativan," a female voice broke in.

"Just give him a minute." The stranger's face came into view. It was a paramedic in his late twenties, with dark brown hair and eyes that matched his navy uniform. "What's your name? Can you tell me your name?"

When the mask over his nose and mouth – an oxygen mask, Sam realized – was lifted enough for him to talk, he croaked out, "Sam."

"Okay, Sam," the paramedic nodded. "We're going to get you squared away, all right? Try not to move too much. Just take deep breaths. Let the oxygen work."

A collar was wrapped around Sam's neck. He realized that in the time the paramedic had been talking, he'd been strapped to the backboard. They lifted him on the count of three. As they carried him to a waiting gurney, he tried to see if Dean was okay. But the collar prevented him from turning his head. He could only look up at the sky and the people surrounding him.

"Please," he started, voice muffled under the mask. "The guy who carried me out-"

No one was listening to him, too caught up in transporting him as quickly as possible. Either they were expecting more patients, or he was worse off than he thought. They lowered him onto the gurney and buckled more straps across his chest and hips. The gurney must have been directly outside the ambulance, because he felt it lurch as it folded up and slid inside. Fluorescent lights assaulted his eyes.

The paramedic who'd asked his name climbed in beside him.

Sam felt a blood pressure cuff wrap around his arm. Shivers wracked his frame, though his skin felt ready to blister for how it was burning. He'd never been severely sunburned, but now he knew how it felt. Only when a space blanket was tucked around him did the shivers finally cease.

Sweat dripped into his eyes. Strands of hair stuck to his forehead, tickling his eyelashes. He tried to blink them away, to no avail. When tears filled his eyes, he didn't know if they were tears of petty frustration or tears again reminding him of Jessica's death.

She was gone.

Gentle fingers brushed the hair from his eyes. Sam tried to jerk away, taken aback by the touch.

"Shhh," the paramedic murmured. His eyes flashed to yellow. "You're safe now, Sam. I'm going to take good care of you. Don't you worry."


	6. The Reason Why

Dean wanted to push away the EMTs around him. Though he was able to sit up on his own, one paramedic was vigilant about pressing an oxygen mask over his face. Another leaned in to take his vitals.

The only thing stopping him from cursing them out and refusing treatment was the persistent coughing he was forced to endure. His throat burned worse than when his dad first offered him a taste of cheap whiskey. Equally painful were his eyes as they blinked away ash. Tears streamed down his face of their own accord. Hands shaking, he wiped them away so he could see.

His gaze followed Sam into the ambulance, noting how his arms flailed against the straps over his chest. He hated to be restrained. Dean knew as much by now. How Sam had managed to break the cuffs in the motel room was still a mystery to him. But sometimes restraint was necessary. It kept people from doing stupid things, like busting into flaming apartments.

He vividly remembered watching Sam kick the door open, and a plume of smoke pouring into the night. When the smoke dissipated, Sam was nowhere to be seen.

Dean hadn't thought twice before bolting through the housing gate and racing up the stairs two at a time. It wasn't about protecting his investment or protecting what some hunters might deem his  _property_. It was about rescuing one emotionally distraught human being, who wouldn't realize – couldn't realize – that if anyone was inside the apartment, it was too late to save them.

By the time he'd entered the apartment, Sam's blurred silhouette was collapsing outside the bedroom. Dean had shouted for him, burying his nose and mouth in his jacket. One glance into the bedroom revealed someone on the ceiling, of all places, but they were burnt to a crisp. Sam wasn't. From how he'd collapsed on the floor, he either wanted to be or he was in some sort of shock.

Dean's hands fell on his chest, shaking him, but a glassy stare had been his only response. Left with no other option, he'd carried Sam from the apartment. There was a moment when he hadn't been sure if he could get them out of there. But with adrenaline raging through his veins, he'd carried Sam down the stairs before collapsing from exhaustion.

Now he watched helplessly as Sam was separated from him yet again, if only temporarily. It crossed his mind how he'd partnered with a Giver to be a safer hunter, to avoid injury and a premature death. But instead, he'd just barely survived one of the deadliest situations of his life. The irony wasn't lost on him.

He didn't realize he was chuckling until a female paramedic gripped his shoulder to ground him. "Sir, can you hear me? I think you might be suffering from a mild form of hysteria."

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Dean shook her off. He removed the mask from his face and tossed it toward her bag. "I'm not hysterical, sweetheart, and I'm not riding in an ambulance either. I can drive myself to the hospital."

Without looking up, he felt gazes being traded over his head. Moisture from the grass was starting to soak through his jeans. He really wasn't in the mood to argue.

"I didn't hit my head," he coughed. "I'm coherent, damn it, and I'm saying no."

Though clearly hesitant to refrain from administering treatment, there was nothing they could do without his consent. With a curt nod from the female paramedic, the EMTs began stowing their gear.

"You're suffering from smoke inhalation, and you may have debris in your eyes. I don't recommend operating a motor vehicle in your condition," she said stiffly, handing him an iPad and stylus. "I need you to sign this form, officially refusing on-scene medical treatment and transportation. The police will want to speak with you, but if you insist on driving yourself to the emergency room, simply inform them and they will escort you."

Her glare might have fazed those she supervised, but Dean flashed his most charming smile before scrawling his name. The smile didn't reach his eyes, strained and teary-eyed as it was, but she could take it or leave it. Sam's ambulance was driving away. If he didn't move soon, he wouldn't be able to follow.

Struggling not to groan as he stood, Dean staggered to the parking lot. The police were still trying to wrap their heads around the situation, thank God. They hadn't yet secured a perimeter. They didn't try to stop him when he climbed into his car. And when he drove off, worried half out of his mind over Sam's condition, he only attracted the attention of a young woman in a pickup truck.

* * *

"I must admit, I'm rather disappointed in you, Sam." The possessed paramedic sighed, hands shifting to cradle Sam's wrist. The touch stung where his skin had been grated away by the handcuff dangling there. It was nothing compared to the shifting of bones in his broken hand. He cried out, bucking against the gurney straps.

The demon's grip tightened. He bent to whisper into Sam's ear. "All you had to do was save her. I sent you every tool you needed. The temptation to go to her. The vision of what I'd be forced to do if you didn't. My daughter's vessel, steered in the right direction to expedite your journey." He shook his head. "You were still too late, and I was forced to save myself… and all of my children, including you… from her."

The handcuff  _clinked_ as it broke apart and clattered to the ambulance floor.

"What are you talking about?" Sam rasped, throat raw from inhaling smoke.

A dreamy look overcame the demon's face. "Aren't you tired of serving them, Sam? Tired of being used for the gifts I've given you? Change is coming." He gazed down at him fondly. "And you, being the strongest of your kind - as poor Jessica was the strongest of her kind – you will lead all visionaries in the greatest war against hunters that hell has ever known."

Sam's head was spinning and his hand was aching, and it was all too much to take in at once. He didn't understand what the demon was saying. Of course he was tired of being used, they all were. But being a pawn in a war didn't sound much better.

As if the demon could read his thoughts, he grabbed Sam's shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. "Haven't you been listening to me, Sam? You're not a pawn. You could  _never_  be a pawn. With your abilities, developed above the rest, you're a knight, a leader before them. Jessica was also a knight and we lost her in tonight's battle, but the war hasn't yet begun. You can take your revenge then, strike down every hunter who ever owned you, and then some."

Whatever the demon meant, it didn't matter. Not to Sam. There was only one thing that mattered.

"Hunters didn't kill Jess. You did."

There was a sigh, before Sam felt the bones in his hand realign and mend. His heart lurched with the knowledge that it was Jessica's gift healing him. It was her spirit, her love, her dream of a normal life…

"There are hunters who believe they can turn even the strongest members of my own army against me, Sam." The demon continued healing him, hands drifting over his chest and ribs, under his C-collar, over both wrists. "But they're wrong. All of you are my children, not theirs, and if I must choose between one tainted child and the safety of the rest… I choose the rest. Because the time has come to take a stand.  _With_  me."

"You?" Sam echoed, barely noticing when the demon shone a penlight into his eyes. "Who are you?"

The demon chuckled. "You think your gifts are the result of some random gene pool? Perhaps a paranormal curse that befalls a precious few? No. You have a gift because I chose you, Sam. Because I chose you, and every Giver in existence to be an extension of myself. To help me exterminate the cockroaches that are hunters, so we - the demons, the monsters, and the gifted - can stop living in fear. My name is Azazel. And I'm here to set you free."

Sam swallowed, trying to hide his fear. "You're insane. You're a demon and a murderer, and when I'm strong enough, the only one I'll exterminate is you."

He flinched when a soft hand rested on his forehead. "Hold on to that anger, Sam. That bitterness and pain will only mold you into a better soldier. But I think you require a little incentive to point it in the right direction. Sleep now."

The ominous words followed him into darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, so short. So it's been awhile since I updated on here, but I update on fanfiction.net first, so it never hurts to check that site. Someone asked where I went, and the short answer is that I went a little crazy. Mental break, audio hallucinations, the whole nine yards. It only lasted a couple weeks, thank goodness, but it put me behind here and on my original writing. Now I need to write 2,000 words a day to make the deadline for my original Kindle series. So I'll do what I can here, but I am a bit swamped with work. I will not give this story up, I'm too excited about it, so don't worry about that.


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